


Your Voice Still Echoes In The Hallways Of This House

by Stoney



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Mentions of Cancer, Panic Attacks, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 12:56:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stoney/pseuds/Stoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for 3.11.  It was just a kiss, just a thumb brushing away moisture on his cheek.  But it was more than that. [Flashback to Mama Stilinski.] </p><p>Not really shippy beyond what was in the episode. Thank you to Sue and Flaming_Muse for a quick beta.  All mistakes are mine, but hopefully I got them out. Song title from Gotye's song Brontë.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Voice Still Echoes In The Hallways Of This House

Stiles' mom had called his dad White Hat, and he had called her Babe. Sometimes she called him Officer Stilinski, but it was always in a teasing sort of way, and then they'd kiss, which was gross (and nice because his parents had really loved each other, and it had always made his dad's shoulders drop, like his mom's kisses were magic. Which, they _were_ because Stiles always felt better after mom cuddles and kisses, but those were different. Obviously.).

His dad did this thing where he'd come home from work – always through the back door – would drop his keys in the little bowl under the kitchen phone on the wall, and his mom – always waiting right there for him – would run her finger over his badge and ask, “Good day for the White Hats?”

And his dad would always answer in one of two ways: he'd nod and smile his sideways grin, repeating, “Yep, good day for the White Hats,” or he'd sigh and press his hand over hers, just over his heart where he wore his badge, and he'd say, “I've had better.”

Stiles, halfway in the kitchen and halfway out, would clutch at the side of the doorway on those days, not sure if he was welcome when his dad looked so defeated like that. He'd watch his mom cup his dad's cheek – _rough from needing to shave; he'd soap up Stiles' face and give him an empty razor to practice with_ – and whisper something to him, something that always made his dad smile a little. 

Sometimes he would hear his dad saying softly, “I don't know how a guy like me ended up with a girl like you, Claudia, I really don't,” and it made Stiles feel funny inside, like his belly was full of fizz, and his heart ached and throbbed like it was too big for his thin chest, but still it was a good feeling somehow.

When Stiles was about ten or eleven – he was in fourth grade, that was as much as he remembered – the Hale house burned down. His dad was a deputy back then and angling to run for Sheriff, so he was heavily involved in dealing with the fire's aftermath. He worked late nights, pulled doubles, slept at the station more than he didn't, and it was just Stiles and his mom for a while. But that was his dad's job, and they were proud of him, how hard he worked, so they made do. 

He knew his mom was sick, had been sick. And he knew that his dad didn't know just how sick.

“He works so hard, honey. It's just a flu or something; I'll be fine. Can't be sick forever, right?”

Stiles' mom had had the flu for a really long time, too long, he'd thought. He also didn't think the flu made people have hard knobs on their neck by their ears like they'd swallowed marbles that had gotten stuck, didn't think that the flu made people grip their stomach with a grimace on their face, staggering when they walked down the hallway, didn't think that it was the flu that made his mom cough until she was wheezing, and didn't think people with the flu parked their sons in the waiting room of an oncologist. 

He was young, but he wasn't _that_ young.

His dad couldn't get any real answers on the Hale fire – the town had never had anything so awful happen to it in its history – so after a few weeks of practically living at the station, he came back home, walked through the back door, and dropped his keys in the little bowl under the kitchen phone, turning towards his mom. Who wasn't standing there. Stiles pressed his skinny chest against the doorway and watched as his mom turned in the chair at the kitchen table across the room and worked a tired smile onto her face.

“Good day for the White Hats?” she asked.

His dad's breath came in sharp. He stood there next to the counter, his hand hovering over the little bowl under the kitchen phone, and for a moment, looked at the two of them. Looked at Stiles in the doorway, eyes too big for his face, he knew, his dad said that every time he'd caught Stiles in his office, and then at his wife, sitting partially slumped in the heavy wooden chair at the kitchen table where they used to eat pancakes on Saturday mornings. They hadn't eaten pancakes on Saturday in a long time, but Stiles didn't mind, because he could make his mom toast just like she liked it and bring it to her room, and then she wouldn't be so tired all day.

“I've had better,” his dad said, but it was quiet and strained, like it hurt to say. Slowly his dad crossed the room, running his palm softly over his wife's hair as he sank down into a chair next to her. “How about you?”

She huffed out a laugh and smiled her own sideways smile. “Same.”

Stiles picked at a tiny imperfection in the wood trim, super focused on the grain and how it undulated and rolled in a series of ever increasing and decreasing ellipses as his mother's voice dropped, saying something Stiles had known was going to be awful, even if no one had actually told him what was going on. When adults whispered and when their eyes got wide, that was always something bad.

He looked up at a clattering noise and saw that his dad had fallen forward onto his forearms on the table, his hands clutching at his wife's. He was trying to talk, but his breath was coming in short, mouth gaping and eyes watering.

Just as a sort of moan – _dads don't cry, dads aren't supposed to cry, they're supposed to stop the bad guys, protect us, love us, be strong, dads don't_ cry – started slipping from his mouth, his mom darted forward, moving faster than Stiles had seen her move in weeks, and pressed her lips to his dad's, stopping him from making that horrible, wrong noise.

Stiles watched as his dad grabbed his mom's shoulder, holding her close, kissing her face over and over, maybe saying, “No,” Stiles never was really sure, even though it sounded like that, but at least he wasn't making that broken noise that sounded like all of the worst things Stiles had nightmares about.

“You gotta keep it together for me, Officer, okay?” His mom cupped his dad's face then, thumb wiping away moisture on his rough cheek. 

Stiles knew just how that felt, that firm but soft sweep that made things okay, that pulled him together enough to keep going, and a tiny part of him had thought that was it. That was everything fixed. His mom wouldn't have the thing making her sick anymore, his dad wouldn't make broken noises like that and would be home and would hold his mom and make gross happy faces and kiss her and it would all be _okay._ That's what that thumb on his cheek _meant._ Then she would hold his dad's chin (she had) and would give it a little shake (she'd done that, too), and he'd laugh (Stiles always laughed), and it would be okay.

Instead of laughing, his dad said, “You going to keep distracting me like that?” His dad had smiled before turning his head and kissing the palm of his mom's hand, holding it against his mouth and breathing deeply.

“Yep,” she'd said, popping the P in a way that always made Stiles smile. Somehow it had only made his stomach clench and twist as he stood there, trying to stay out of the way but wanting desperately just then to climb into their laps and feel his family safe and whole and his.

“That's pretty smart.”

His mom had laughed and rested their foreheads together. “ _I'm_ pretty smart.”

Stiles loved his mom for that one thing, that more than anything else. She _had_ been smart. She'd been tough and awesome and smelled good and had loved him and had loved his dad and she was the smartest person he knew. Had known.

Stiles sat on the cold floor, the overpowering and frightening symptoms of the panic attack receding with every sharp and shaking inhalation, and thought about how his mom had distracted his dad from falling apart completely upon hearing that she had Stage Four Lymphoma. Lydia knelt in front of him, biting her lower lip, and Stiles had the wild thought that she was holding onto whatever was left of the kiss she'd just given him.

Lydia had just kissed him. To stop a panic attack.

“I read once that holding your breath can stop a panic attack, so,” Lydia sighed, “when I kissed you, you held your breath.”

Stiles' heart was still racing. His hands were still clammy and his skin still felt too tight and stretched thin, but it was for an entirely different reason. He wasn't going to kid himself and think this meant something huge – Lydia was still Lydia: unattainable and perfect – but it was the first time that someone who wasn't Scott or his dad had tried to help him. The first time someone had tried to make him feel better since his mom died. Hell, the first person to realize he might _need_ someone to help him.

And it was Lydia with her too big eyes and full lips that had just touched his, Lydia with a soft voice full of concern, Lydia who was...well. Almost as amazing as his mom had been.

His mother had always said that no one had told her she was smart when growing up, so she told herself. As Lydia bit her lip some more, looking at Stiles with almost shyness, he wondered if anyone ever told her. If ever there was a person who deserved to have praises heaped upon her – praise that _meant_ something, because clothes and hair and makeup weren't the things that lasted, but her _mind_.... God. 

“That was really smart,” he said, not caring that his voice was quietly fracturing as his lip did a sort of wobble. The way she looked off and nervously moved away, he thought maybe no one ever did tell her that. He'd just have to make a point of reminding her that he knew she was, then. 

Eventually they stood, Lydia giving him a sort of encouraging smile, and he felt like she was pulling him together. It wasn't a magic kiss or anything, but it definitely made him feel less... hopeless. As they walked out of the locker room, Stiles almost wiped at his face before letting his arm drop to his side. If he concentrated, he could still feel the soft, warm press of her mouth against his, could still feel the ghost of her fingers light and sweet on his chin, the delicate brush of her thumb against his cheek. Maybe they could do this. Maybe it would be okay. They could save his dad and Scott's mom and Allison's dad and they could _do_ this. The good guys fucking needed a win.

Stiles looked out for everyone – his dad, the pack, Scott, Mrs. McCall – and he didn't realize how he just needed someone to help him. Just needed someone to show that they cared about _him_ , even if just for a moment. He just needed someone to give him the illusion of security, even when he knew it was just that. It was just a press of lips to his to shock him out of his panic attack. Just a thumb softly brushing over his cheekbone, the sensation carrying the echo of his mother's love. 

Lydia flashed him a smile over her shoulder, reaching out to hold his hand. His heart lurched under his rib cage, his stomach had that free-falling sensation, and then Lydia took his hand in hers, giving it a little squeeze that was replicated in his chest. 

Stiles swallowed thickly and followed her. Lydia made an awesome White Hat.


End file.
